Pinching Pennies

I did two things this week that have made me appreciate my telecommuting status, yet again, and to decide, despite what Friday's post may have insinuated, I don’t care if I wind up a patient in a psychiatric hospital (as long as they let me move around and don’t keep me bedridden). The first thing I did was to get an oil change in my car for $40. The second thing I did was to fill up my gas tank for $42.15. (Incidentally, you can tell this means I don’t drive one of those hideously ugly, monstrous SUVs that so many advertising-influenced Americans, who have to drive under such extremely challenging conditions -- all those wide, smoothly-paved, clearly-marked, suburban streets -- have been suckered-in to believing they need in order to be safe, while demonstrating that, although they may look like suburban parents, they’re really “ruggedly cool” adventurers who just might take off on a safari at a moment’s notice). I can’t believe getting an oil change is now cheaper than filling up my gas tank. Back in my living paycheck-to-paycheck days, oil changes were those things I was always wondering if I could make do without, because they were expensive. I never thought of them as a bargain. But now my tendency to pinch pennies is asking, “Hmmm. Can I make do without the gas and just spend my money on those cheap oil changes?” Possibly, if I can keep those bothersome post office trips down to only one a week.

These sorts of thoughts are constant reminders that I’m my father’s daughter. He loves to credit his ethnic heritage for his inability to part with his pennies (Scottish and Jewish. Really. Can you think of a worse combination, especially when paired with growing up during the Depression, an era that could have inspired even Richie Rich to stash away some of those wheelbarrows of allowance he received each week?). My father was well-known for replying to monetary requests from his kids with, “I’m sorry, honey, but I haven’t got a dime in my pocket,” once prompting my brother to ask, “I know, but what about some dollars?” He would drive five miles out of his way in order to save 5 cents on gas. We wore hats and gloves in the house during the winter, because if 55 degrees was “room temperature” in Great Britain and “good enough for Queen Elizabeth,” it was “good enough for us.”

With this sort of an example, you can see why I spent a good deal of my childhood trying to figure out ways to earn my own money. But, I soon discovered, I was just as enamored with figuring out ways to keep from having to spend it, an unrequited love over which I still pine. Thus, when I started thinking about ways this telecommuting business is saving me money, the sparks began to glow in my heart again. Not only am I saving gas money, but I don’t have to buy clothes to prove I’m as hip and trendy as my colleagues. I don’t have to worry about forgetting my lunch and having to either starve all day or fork over money for an overpriced deli sandwich. I don’t get invited to happy hours anymore, so I don’t have to pay the price of a six pack for one beer, nor do I have to pay our teenaged neighbor $5 to come walk and feed Lady, because I’m not home to do so. The pennies are just piling up. I’m going to have to borrow one of Richie Rich’s wheelbarrows.

Okay, let me enjoy this a little while longer before telling me my electric bills are on the rise.